Fly Flummoxed by the Flux: Anton Avenged and Stoltz Stultified
by Quillon42
Summary: Be kind of sort of afraid


FLY FLUMMOXED BY THE FLUX: ANTON AVENGED AND STOLTZ STULTIFIED

By Quillon42

SOMETIME IN 1995, MAYBE, IN AN AWFUL ALTERNATE REALITY OF AMERICAN CINEMA AND SCIENCE

Recollections of these barren byways, in the years in which he had been miles out and away from the facility…the memories had always been bitter for Master Martin Brundle. Every image of carnage that caromed through the accelerated-aged manboy's brain, every figment of freakish fragmentation regarding those goons whom his other, insectoid iteration had eviscerated, ever so violently…it all haunted even the decade-old fiftysomething himself, each speedy second-hour that elapsed for him an echo of human agony. Even if it was the enemy who had suffered.

Perhaps it was savager's guilt, in fact, that made the literal manchild revisit the research area which made him who he was, in more ways than one. The place made him a fly, then made him fly thereafter, take flight and realize a rebirth of burgeoning success and fame to boot. Though many, including his love Beth Logan, felt it his destiny to continue his father Seth's work, quickly after he realized his freedom from the brig of Bartok, Martin found that he was attracted to lights more than any arthropod ally of his could ever be.

In the Brundle boy's case, though, it was no bug zapper which drew him out…nay, it was nothing less, in fact, than the spotlights of Hollywood itself, some impetus sired from the impromptu traumas he endured inspiring him to express himself through celluloid exhibitions, rather than through cellular experimentations. Adopting the stage name of Eric Stoltz, after anagramming the words LOST TRICES (to connote the time he'd lost in his life, both to his abnormal aging disorder as well as to his imprisonment under his faux father of a foe—then changing one of the S's to a Z to be stylin')…said Stoltz found a fair measure of success in a slew of films over the course of just a few years, and had by the tenth anniversary of his cinematic campaign (real time, and in this reality exclusively) he had risen to the occasion of directing several episodes of a terrible teen drama involving the monkey shines of an insufferable high school choir whose cacophony brought misery to the multiverse.

Coming off of all this ostensible magnificence, Martin thought it more than appropriate, not unlike the protagonist of a perilous tale of terror from the Fifties offerings of E.C., to revisit the area of his origin, to pay some kind of sardonic tribute to the trouble, the adversity from which his own supposed legend had been spawned. It was here that he would once again belt out the last laugh, and see how that actual monster now fared, that unctuous Anton Bartok who might have had his way and manipulated Martin for the entirety of his ephemeral existence…but for the overlord's underestimation of the ferocity regarding the fly with whom he was dealing.

How wonderful would it be, in any case, for this latter-day-Stoltz to lord it over the larva that was Bartok now, bask in the fact that that fucker had become all the more the bugaboo that Brundle had thought him, late into their…working relationship. Then some hours after soaking in the satisfaction that the evil of Anton had eroded into an odious amorphousness…Martin could meet with his babe Beth, and together they could traipse off into another sweet sunset with their smooth skin, and their sheeny hair, and their sparkling eyes…

For sure, the sand at the man's feet would be something silky, and not the wrinkled roughness that was sliding under the grownup boy's feet now. Honestly, it occurred to this adultolescent just this instant, they really should refurbish around here…these boorish beige welcome mats have just got to…

[SWOOOWWWHOOOOOOSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH]

and then it was the harsh, horrific happenstance of it all that said carpet was in fact a creature, the very laboratory tapestry a trap in fact, a living and breathing entity that enveloped the errant ass entirely by the ankles and shins, ushering him now on an express through the hallways that Martinfly once stalked.

As it turned out now, to Master Brundle's detriment, Anton had not devolved to a putrid pupa as was assumed, but rather had advanced to alpha male insect status indeed. And yet, what Brundle was here was not some sleek mutha of a Musca, but rather a masterful maggot who could calculate, and concoct, and invent, and scheme…and ensnare most predatorily.

The tour Martin now undertook of Bartok's backyard was a lonely one, given that Anton allowed for no assistance in his endeavors of the last several years. Beholding with abject fright the bodies of snide, indifferent observing scientists as he was barreled through, MartinEric mewled and emitted many ejaculations of apprehension as his captor underfoot had undulated along.

Then

[WHHHHHHHHHHHUUUMMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP]

an unceremonious tumble for the teen past his prime, as Anton ejected EricMartin abruptly out and to the ground, the latter paralyzed upon the floor for a pat second or ten.

It was just then that

[WWWWWHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR]

a panel from the ceiling came descending down, without warning, it bringing itself banefully down towards the face and throat of the incapacitated asshole underneath…then

[SSSSSCCCCCCRRRRRRUUUUUSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHH]

squelching the snark and smarm from the countenance of Beth's beau, as the boyman's head was sheared most shockingly from his shoulders, the floor becoming flooded with fool-features, the ground glutted with grue and gore.

Before Martin's brain could even begin to register this deadly development fully, much less expire extemporaneously from it…

[SHHHUMSHHHUMSHHHUMSHHHUMSHHHUMSHHHUMSHHHUMSHHHUMSHHHUM]

the blokebrat found himself becoming absorbed by the beige-buff mass that was Bartok once more, assimilated by him, dominated by him entirely.

Verily in the ensuing instants, Anton had owned…pwned the piddling atoms of this "Eric Stoltz" as he spun-cycled the turkey of a thespian within himself.

…

…

…

More or less ten minutes later in actuality now, and an hour Martin-time, that gentleman jacked up with juniority (at one time) known as Martin Brundle found himself fully whole once again, and standing in a hallway lower into the facility…

…yet standing, still, within the midst of the basic, base ick that was Bartok.

The seething CEO-of-Ooze allowed his prisoner a peek down at the moccasin-hued mass that was milling at his feet…

and then

[HHHHHHSSSSSSPPPPPPLLLLLIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEETTTTTTTTCCCCCCZZZZZZZZZZZ]

the white-as-sexual-seed fluid flowed freely, fleetly, up and out from a spout in the skin.

Bathing the face of the bastard who brought all this upon Bartok.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!" paroxysmed the pecker of a thirtysomething tween, as his kisser began to hiss, as his countenance began to cook, as his mug began to melt, the latently-christened Stoltz stumbling backward, he having to pull off the very flesh of his fucking face just to be able to achieve a semblance of breathing, the ravishing smirker becoming rainbow sherbet as from cheek to chin he regressed from the flushest of flesh to flash-fried fuchsia.

He was given a glance of a chance to appreciate his situation of supine slaughter, the retirement-rushing stripling called Stoltz now finally understanding the awful fate of that sentry he'd assaulted most acidly. And then, just as Martinfly moseyed up and over that soldier years ago, Bartok now barged his way onto the scene most similarly once more.

[SHHHUMSHHHUMSHHHUMSHHHUMSHHHUMSHHHUMSHHHUMSHHHUMSHHHUM]

And again with the absorption, and the assimilation, and the owning and the pwning and the plunking down of the douche into another area of the lurid laboratory.

…

…

…

Now this section of the sanctum sanctorum was something that "Eric" could never efface, not in eons.

The muff of a manling, made whole once again by the tampering of Anton once again…he took in full those person-displacing devices, which made Seth Brundle what he would become…which made Martin as well…which also made Anton, ultimately.

Yes, fellow boymen and girlwomen…what BrundleStoltz now beheld before him was nothing less than those considerable contumacious canisters of inhumanity, those ginormous terrifying tumblers of turnabout…

…those timberwolf-tinted port-a-johns of destiny known otherwise…as the Telepods.

And no rest for this runt of the rat race, as Toddler-to-Toolbox-in-a-Trice was taken, most tremulously, via the relentless rug who answered to Anton, towards an IBM PC more Jr. than Martin in the first minutes of his existence.

 _WHAT'S THE MAGIC WORD?_ displayed the fossil device's screen as Bartok brought Brundle before it. Stoltz could not stop himself, he found, as his ghastly ginger digits began to dash at the keyboard in front of him.

 _G,_ punched a key as Martin marked with utter anxiety a pod nearby.

 _L,_ tapped another as Brundle now brimmed with complete consternation.

 _E,_ knackered the third while Eric eyeballed a certain chic pocketbook with panic. (It seemed to spirit onto a nearby workbench out of nowhere).

 _E,_ struck the final piece of the passcode as Stoltz stood there…consummately stultified.

The screams of his lover Logan, whom he could place was here too by the purse nearby, were drowned out by the codgerchild's own yells…as well as the booming holler of Bartok beneath.

" _ZZZHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEE…"_

As it turned out, the murderous maggot was presenting his own pronunciation of "GLEE"…yet it was one which suggested not the cantankerous cable program, but rather a filmic failure…the entity's enunciation was issued to conjure scarring thoughts and images of an Affleck rather than an Eric, of a Lopez instead of a Stoltz. Because that indeed made this all the more frightening.

 _MENAGE-A-PODS SEQUENCE ACTIVATED_

gleamed the artifact IBM as the rotten routine resumed of marching Martin by the way of the muck of Bartok. The geezer of a gradeschooler was guided across the great chamber, past an aghast Beth beating as hard as she could, to no avail, against the opaque gate to her own steel-pristine prison…past another conical cell, ajar and empty…

…to a third Telepod, open but very occupied. Martin tripped over the detritus within as he was shuttled inside, along with the shuffling sentinel who shunted in with him.

At one foot, the remains of the retriever whom StoltzBrundle had smothered with love as a five-year-old fetus. Still breathing, despite its apparent chloroformed mercy kill from years ago.

At the other, a tattered, battered board with tiny wheels. The very deck that Stoltz, in this reality, had rode out most atrociously during the entirety of his tenure as (the apropros-ly monikered) Marty McFly, whom he played in Back to the Future from first to last. (Zemeckis was unfortunately much less discerning in this reality.)

The last item that Brundle could eye out on the sciencing floor, as a Bartok-pseudopod shot out to shut the door for all occupants involved, was a seeming smear of synthetic blood vessels, cream-colored like Christmas lights.

 _The fffff…fucking Flux Capacitor?!_ was the flummoxed fly-to-be-once-again's last thought, as said Capacitor indeed kicked in and initiated the abovementioned Menage, to mix up the essences of Bartok, Beth, and Master Martin alike.

[WWWWWHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR]

And then the telltale shhhclick of the neighboring Telepod's door kicked off the perverse parade of horribles to hoof, heeltoe, or otherwise slouch ever so slimily out of their respective receptacles.

Bounding on out first was Bartok himself, he once again all himself, and spiffy in his executive suit to boot. It took seemingly an eternity for his shed-snakeskin of a figure to futz with all this machinery, to orchestrate this orgy of cellular melding that he'd pondered and planned over so many plates of gruel, under the observation of so many apathetic scientists in their booths above. Soon enough, by sneaking up on them one by one, Anton'd eaten much more satisfyingly, and his abnormal form absorbed each's brain matter, such that his own mind became all the more augmented to take on the task he'd envisioned all this time.

Next to shhhclick out of her steel shell was Beth, who upon emerging from her synthetic egg had

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

become a mite more than nonplussed at the golden gal of gaudy, the platinum princess of priss into which she was transfigured once again.

"Why the crestfallen face, Highness?" asked Anton with supercilious snark, the man rejoicing within to be able to even articulate like a human at all. "Everyone really knows you best, after all, as that sassy Spaceballer—it's not like you really had anything else going for you this decade. This _Fly_ shitfest certainly didn't help anyone…at least not the sequel."

Forlornly the lady looked back at the pod from which her new self was spawned. So that was what was with the giant blowdryer, stuck in the teleporter alongside me…

"So now you can just revel in the reality of being Vespa forever! …Don't worry; there'll be an Animated Series revival of it in another fifteen years or so…those dozen episodes'll cover you for a few flings at the local Friday's! Heh, heh, heh…"

Fifty-six trillion times more gratifying for Bartok, in any case, was the shitpile of scientist, the anathema of actor, the abominable blend of Brundle that trundled now out of the third Telepod. The entity which exited that last portal of devious displacement…it was part pest, part pooch, part ginger, and part grind…

[HAAAWWWWWWWWWWWNNNNNNNNNNKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK]

…as the shambling, honking horror that was now the transmogrified Martin Brundle made its way, scrabbling and semi-rolling across the lab floor.

"I was torn between three, shall we say…treatments, for you, Martin. I wanted you to bond with your insect origins once more…but then I thought that a reunion with your best childhood buddy, who met his fate at Bay 17 so long ago, was in order as well.

"Then I considered how unwatchable you were in your doings with the DeLorean—the labcoats all made me view the entire trilogy over and over again, to measure my aggression and aggravation levels—and especially in light of your perennial ineptitude with a skateboard, I figured, hell, I'd throw in a deck for the fuck of it.

"Perhaps now, with it being such a…part of you, you can really go from trash to thrash!"

And it was this astringent invective that this jagoff-turned-jabberwocky was left with, as he

slumped galumphingly across the Telepod testground floor.

…

…

…

"BZZZAAAAARRRFFF!

"BZZZAAAAARRRFFF!"

No, silly; that's not Jay-Z's vomitory lament at the impending failure of Tidal!

It was

"BZZZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRFFF!"

the semi-buzzing, semi-barking of a beast that was part-housefly, part-golden-retriever, part-skateboard, part-crappy-ass Eric Stoltz…all as it crawled along contemptibly on its twisted thoraxdomen toward its miserable meal of the day. From above, an elated Anton observed, recording only the fabulous feels that this titillating triumph had given him.

By the time it wrenchingly reached its source of pseudo-sustenance, the Stoltzfly(mutt)(deck) also noted, with its primitive capacity for perception, two other items alongside the insanitary gruel which it was given: for one, a friggin milkbone…

…and for the other, to drive the point home regarding his impotence at portraying the DeLorean Driver, a simmering license plate, which seconds ago was spinning on its edge before settling to the greasy ground.

A license plate, which the amalgamated monster could note with the eye socket that was not partially skate-truck, had read OUTATALENT.

EPILOGUE

As it turned out later, Bartok's orchestrations were such that Martin reverted fully back to his human form in another five years or so. But by then, he was fifteen in Brundle years, which equates to seventy-five in human time, and he expired from natural causes five minutes later, real time. Oh, well!


End file.
